Friday, October 20, 2017

Flash Fiction contest: Shadow Weaver by MarcyKate Connolly

It's entirely true that I stole this ARC from the sleeping hand of MarcyKate Connolly's trusting agent, and slithered back to my office to read it posthaste.

And now my criminal spoils are yours for the winning!

The usual rules apply:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

2. Use these words in the story:

shadow
weaver
flesh
magic
dar

3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: flesh/fleshy is ok but flesh/flemish is not

4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.

5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.

6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.

7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)

8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.

8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)

9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"

11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.

12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.

He took a break and leaned on his blood-stained shovel. The ground was hard, the flesh softer. He exhaled…the stale odor of gin and nicotine drifted past a dew-covered web. The orb weaver magically disappeared into the shadows, as the man continued his digging.

So much toil on this godforsaken plot.

Sweat lined his brow as he tried to remember last night. He glanced down at the cloth-covered corpse, frowned, and continued digging.

Abandoned deep in the woods at sunset I hurried after him as quickly as I could. My little legs were too short to keep up. As darkness erased his shadow, I sobbed, why did you leave me here? What did I do wrong? Why me?Alone, afraid, cold, and hungry I imagined myself withering to flesh and bones before I had a chance to grow up. Curled in a ball under some leaves, I cried and finally slept. As a weaver of dreams, the magic of sleep consoled me. Morning. Voices.“Mommy, look what I found. A kitten.”

Through dark magics have I stolen the powers, the advantages, that only the gods themselves had owned. Through major battles and minor scuffles have I conquered the known lands. Now I shall weave reality anew, reshape reality in mine own image.

Which kinda sucks for reality, I guess, 'cause I really am an asshole.

In that moment, the magic was real.Out of our clothes we scrambled.Into her I plunged.Out of two bodies, we became one flesh.In love, I knew we were.Out of her mouth came a different story.Inconceivable, insincere, insane.

Out at the bar, stupidly alone.In my drink he slipped a roofie.Out cold, I was.In the ER, cops and doctors whispered.Out of this bed would walk two souls.In awe, averse to reality.Outside the clinic, tears had owned my cheeks.In my mind, I never left his back seat.Outraged, outsmarted, outcast.

Madame Feraline, weaver of black magic and darling of the royal court of Carkoon, waved her fleshy paws in the air and cast her spell. With the flick of her sleek tail, she disappeared into the alley’s dark shadows. The Duchess of Yowl hissed a warning from atop her dumpster throne, but it was too late. Sir Mouse-a-lot, the court’s gentle jester, was never heard from again.

The car isn't too hot. I left it parked in the shade of a tree, and the dancing shadow of the leaves held off the sun.

You've heard of my work, though you wouldn't recognize my face. I'm the weaver of words who wrote that exposé last year. The one about that actress, with the picture perfect plastic surgery face that barely has a shred of flesh left, who turned out to work for the CIA.

I turn the key in the ignition. There's a flash. A blast. Like a massive malfunction at a Las Vegas magic show.

Young girl dream weaverWannabe high achieverSleeps on a creaky cotWants her frozen waffles hotElectric’s shut offHand-washing brother’s socks.Shadows callForget it allLife’s a jokeTake a tokeTake a jumpOff a wallFallFallFall.Along comes neighbor ladySays that she’ll watch the babyWon’t charge your mom a dimeJust get to school on time.Now she got the magic keyReal generosity.Night and dayNightAndDayTurns each F into an A.Dream weaver’s going farCollege on the radarGonna be a superstarA superstar.

Folded into the tiny space, her long legs cramped; the theater crowd was white noise, awaiting this final performance. Shadowy figures flitted back and forth, making last-minute adjustments on the darkened stage. Silent, preoccupied, they trundled props and costumes to the carriage waiting outside the stage door. The Great Moirai, “Weaver of Illusions,” moved not the slightest muscle beneath his pale, waxen flesh as he, too, waited in the darkness.

The curtain rose, revealing the glass tank and the magician, floating silently forever. Behind the theater, the carriage lurched into motion. Inside the costume trunk, Atropos, former magician’s assistant, smiled.

Hands moved in shadow play against old walls, the tale told by the story weaver becoming flesh in the soft lantern light. His magic held the children in its darkling palm as parents sat in the warm bar, enjoying their respite from family worries. Separate. Unaware.

Fingers danced to form the devilish favours he would gift to each child when they left, small dark hearts to stain their souls, tiny demons to whisper in their ears.

Eventually, the children were reclaimed and mellow parents offered their thanks for the entertainment. “It’s not over yet,” he whispered as they walked away.

Twenty years she waited, worried, stoked fires and balanced books. From rosy-fingered dawn she toiled, sought his shadow o’er the wine-dark sea. Midnights she wove and wrecked her web till weaver and task became one.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he croons as whiskers chafe her care-worn cheek. His hands work that old black magic, plying her body like a well-strung bow. Flesh might forgive what the heart can’t.

Local paper runs same article each year, warning ‘bout strange happenings in the woods, going on for years. Under the shadows of tall oaks or pines, waiting on bones to tell them ‘bout unsolved murders. They ain’t yet. Bones? Them I don’t know ‘bout. Flesh? Yes.

Guided by a vision, perfect in its nonexistence, the artist, weaver of the tapestry Life, picks up her golden brush—saturated with all the colors of light—and paints a line across the canvas of night.

Above it, she layers illumination, a pastel backdrop for abstract terrain fleshed out in earthen hues. Upon her palette, she blends magic from which streak rainbows. Blues run in rivers and pool in lakes.

She toils. Her brush runs dry. Darkness falls; all colors swirl into black.

We avert our eyes; she practices her magic in our backyard. One morning I find a waxy lump of burned flesh on the patio. The hydrangeas are an unnatural blue I've never seen and under them is a shadow shaped like a four legged creature. We don't dare say anything and I blame Hank, who seems to be under some sort of spell. I would confront her myself but every time I think what to say I end up staring into the fireplace, imagining the hair on my arms burning. We must keep the will secret, long as we can.

Hand a weaver rifle and cap, and some black magic makes him a soldier.

He had kneeled in these woods before. Same thin jacket, threadbare hopes. Another man stood over him with bayonet and hesitated. Today John stood amidst the skulls of last year’s dead, flames crackling in fleshless sockets. The man who spared him was one.

Again the wounded unraveled in the shadows. A man in dusty broadcloth kneeled before him. For all John knew the weight of his country rested on his bayonet, but his heart was too heavy to thrust.

How are you? I’m okay. I spent the day cleaning cobwebs—pushing back the shadows, mom always said. I found your baby doll—such a darling find—real eyelashes, porcelain softer than flesh. I don’t believe in magic, but I stood it on the bedside table and slept all night without dreaming.

I want you to have it, but I can only send letters, and you never visit. Are you still angry? You know how hard it is to tell the difference between a weaver and a recluse. Surely the scars have faded by now. Come soon.

We called him Weaver because his web of lies had more tangles than Rapunzel’s hair. We didn’t know his real name, only his stories which consisted of an old lover who broke his heart and stole his son.

“That boy is my flesh,” he’d say nightly over a pint. Dark shadows resided under his glassy eyes. We were apt to feel sorry for him until he started talking nonsense about helping the queen magically spin straw into gold, them bonding over being outcasts.

Someone jokingly suggested he build a new son out of enchanted wood. Never saw him after that.

Shadowy elm-branch arms were capering across the floorboards when Tia went to bed, sick and sore inside.Such lies he’d told! Boozy breath stinking like limburger. Tia hadn’t called 911 even when he passed out cold.Ugh! Orphaned at the father-daughter dance! Everyone had laughed.Overhead, her magic dreamcatcher. Grandma Weaver had strung it, said Tia would need it. If only dreams were real.Beneath the bed, a darkling beetle’s tic-tic - like her father’s heart when he held her - made her flesh crawl into goosepimples. Daddy’s snoring paused, hiccupped.Tia dreamed of belladonna’s soporific effects.The tic-tic ceased.

The small, dark outline appears once more on the wall at our bedside; in silhouette, twisted bones weave reflections of a brutal time.'Bad dream, Little One?' we ask.His head nods the ghost of a yes.We sooth with song and hushes so he may rest.Whatever magic brings him here, will keep us here. Compelled; we remain to warm this cold, cruel house; unable to abandon this shadow child we found here and call our own, despite the contradiction of our blood and flesh

Portos, the weaver of magic, trapped the shadow of Dartagnan upon the wall. Portos, rubbed his hands and cackled to himself. He would upend D, finally besting him. None of this all for one crap, he giggled. Nevermore.

But Dartagnan in the flesh bridled, knowing Portos was playing games with his spirit. He pulled out his sword and sliced through the candle, releasing his shadow before his spirit could be trapped for good.

"Eye of newt, flesh of frog, dragon's gizzard found in smog: the swirling oily Fog of Death."

It's death all right - to servitude! I shatter rubies, swallow pearls, chain twisted lizards by my door. They see through darkest subterfuge. I spell a man to make me glass (my cat is black, of course) and shovel all the naked weft of words into the flame he blows. A shadow grows inside the sun, transmuting rage to gold.

Those words pricked at my flesh. I opened my mouth but before words formed his eyes dared me to choose his fist over the shadows of the dark. Not wanting to aggravate the devil, I grabbed my coat.

With fear wrapped around me I weaved in between the helpless and hopeless. Just as my foot touched Jackson’s corner, a large hand seized me from behind. Before I could put up a fight, he had me on the ground.

When my attacker finished, he pulled out a gun and finished a life giving impossible odds.

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I'm a literary agent in NYC. I specialize in crime fiction and narrative non-fiction (history and biography.) I'll be glad to receive a query letter from you; guidelines to help you decide if I'm looking for what you write are below.
There are several posts labelled "query pitfalls" and "annoy me" that may help you avoid some common mistakes when querying.